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But he raises the foe when in battle laid low, Some other admire, who will melt with your fire, And bathes every wound with a Tear.

And laugh at the little coquette.

the smart,

If with high-bounding pride he return to his bride, For me, I adore some twenty or more,
Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear,

And love them most dearly; but yet,
All his toils are repaid, when, embracing the maid, Though my heart they enthral, I'd abandon them
From her eyelid he kisses the Tear.


Did they act like your blooming coquette.
Sweet scene of my youth! seat of Friendship and

No longer repine, adopt this design,
Where love chased each fast-fceting year,

And break through her slight-woven net;
Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd, for a last look I turn'd, Away with despair, no longer forbear

But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear. To fly from the captious coquette.
Though my vows I can pour to my Mary no more, Then quit her, my friend ! your bosom defend,
My Mary to love once so dear,

Ere quite with her snares you're beset:
In the shade of her bower I remember the hour Lest your deep-wounded heart, when incensed by
She rewarded those vows with a Tear.

Should lead you to curse the coquette.
By another possest, may she live ever blest !

Her name still my heart must revere :
With a sigh I resign what I once thought was mine,
And forgive her deceit with a Tear.

Ye friends of my heart, ere from you I depart, Your pardon, my friend, if my rhymes did offend,
This hope to my breast is most near :

Your pardon, a thousand times o'er: If again we shall meet in this rural retreat,

From friendship I strove your pangs to remove, May we meet, as we part, with a Tear.

But I swear I will do so no more. When my soul wings her flight to the regions of night, Since your beautiful maid your flame has repaid, And my corse shall recline on its bier,

No more I your folly regret; As ye pass by the tomb where my ashes consume,

She's now most divine, and I bow at the shrine Oh ! moisten their dust with a Tear.

Of this quickly reformed coquette. May no marble bestow the splendour of woc,

Yet still, I must own, I should never have known Which the children of vanity rear;

From your verses what else she deserved ; No fiction of fame shall blazon my name,

Your pain seem'd so great, I pitied your fate,
All I ask-all I wish-is a Tear.

As your fair was so devilish reserved.
Since the balm-breathing kiss of this magical miss

Can such wonderful transports produce;

Since the world you forget, when your lips once OF J. M. B. PIGOT, ESQ., ON THE CRUELTY OF

have met,' HIS MISTRESS.

My counsel will get but abuse. WHY, Pigot, complain of this damsel's disdain,

You say, when I rove, I know nothing of love;' Why thus in despair do you fret?

'Tis true, I am given to range : For months you may try, yet, believe me, a sigh

If I rightly remember, I've loved a good number, Will never obtain a coquette.

Yet there's pleasure, at least, in a change. Would you teach her to love? For a time seem to

I will not advance, by the rules of romance, rove;

To humour a whimsical fair; At first she may frown in a pet;

Though a smile may delight, yet a frown won't But leave her awhile, she shortly will smile,

affright, And then you may kiss your coquette.

Or drive me to dreadful despair. For such are the airs of these fanciful fairs,

While my blood is thus warm I ne'er shall reform, They think all our homage a debt:

To mix in the Platonist's school; Yet a partial neglect soon takes an effect,

of this I am sure, was my passion so pure, And humbles the proudest coquette.

Thy mistress would think me a fool. Dissemble your pain, and lengthen your chain,

And if I should shun every woman for one, And seem her hauteur to regret;

Whose inage must fill my whole breastIf again you shall sigh, she no more will deny

Whom I inust prefer, and sigh but for her That yours is the rosy coquette.

What an insult 'twould be to the rest! If still, from false pride, your pangs she deride,

Now, Strephon, good-bye, I cannot deny This whimsical virgin forget;

Your passion appears most absurd;

Such love as you plead is pure love indeed,

For it only consists in the word.


* III-starr'd, though brave, did no visions foreboding* ELIZA, what fools are the Mussulman sect,

Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause ? Who to women deny the soul's future existence !

Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden,

Victory crown'd not your fall with applause :
Could they see thee, Eliza, they'd own their defect,
And this doctrine would meet with a general re-

Still were you happy in death's earthy slumber,

You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar :: sistance.

The pibroch resounds to the piper's loud number, Had their prophet possess'd half an atom of sense, Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr.

He ne'er would have women from paradise driven ; Years have rolld on, Loch na Garr, since I left you, Instead of his houris, a flimsy pretence,

Years must elapse ere I tread you again : With women alone he had peopled his heaven.

Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you, Yet still, to increase your calamities more,

Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain. Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit, England! thy beauties are tame and domestic He allots one poor husband to share amongst four!- To one who has roved o'er the mountains afar: With souls you'd dispense; but this last who could Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic! bear it?

The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr ! His religion to please neither party is made, On husbands 'tis hard, to the wives most uncivil;

Still I can't contradict, what so oft has been said,
•Though women are angels, yet wedlock's the PARENT of golden dreams, Romance!

Auspicious queen of childish joys,
Who lead'st along, in airy dance,

Thy votive train of girls and boys;

At length, in spells no longer bound,
AWAY, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses !

I break the fetters of my youth ; In you let the minions of luxury rove;

No more I tread thy mystic round, Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes,

But leave thy realms for those of Truth. Though still they are sacred to freedom and love: And yet 'tis hard to quit the dreams Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,

Which haunt the unsuspicious soul, Round their white summits though elements war; Where every nymph a goddess seems. Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing foun. Whose eyes through rays immortal roll; tains,

While Fancy holds her boundless reign, I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr.

And all assume a varied hue; Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd ;

When virgins seem no longer vain,

And even woman's smiles are true.
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid it
On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponderd,

And must we own thec but a name,
As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade ;

And from thiy hall of clouds descend? I sought not my home till the day's dying glory

Nor find a sylpli in every dame, Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star;

A Pylades in every friend? For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story,

But leave at once thy realms of air Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr.

To mingling bands of fairy elves;

Confess that woman's false as fair, .Shades of the dead I have I not heard your voices

And friends have feeling for-themselves ! Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale ?' Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland vale.

• I allude here to my maternal ancestors, the Gor. Round Loch na Garr while the stormy mist gathers,

dons, many of whom fought for the unfortunate

Prince Charles, better known by the name of the Winter presides in his cold icy car:

Pretender. This branch was nearly allied by blood, Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers;

as well as attachment, to the Stuarts. George, the

second Earl of Huntly, married the Princess Anna. They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr. bella Stuart, daughter of James the First of Scotland.

By her he left four sons: the third, Sir William Gordon,

Uave the honour to claim as one of my progenitors. • Lachin y Gair, or, as it is pronounced in the # Whether any perished in the battle of Culloden, Erse, Loch na Garr, towers proudly pre-eminent in I am not certain ; but as many fell in the insurrection, the Northern Highlands, near Invercauld. One of I have used the name of the principal action, 'pars our modern tourists mentions it as the highest moun. pro toto. tain, perhaps, in Great Britain. Be this as it may, it A tract of the Highlands so called. There is also is certainly one of the most sublime and picturesque a Castle of Braemar. amongst our Caledonian Alps. Its appearance is of It is hardly necessary to add, that Pylades was a dusky hue, but the summit is the seat of eternal the companion of Orestes, and a partner in one of Snows. Near Lachin y Gair I spent some of the those friendships which, with those of Achilles and early part of my life, the recollection of which has Patroclus, Nisus and Euryalus, Danion and Pythias, given birth to these stanzas.

have been handed down to posterity as remarkable + This word is erroneously pronounced plad: the instances of attachments, which in all probability proper pronunciation (according to the Scotch) is never existed beyond the imagination of the poet, or shown by the orthography.

the page of an historian, or inoderu novelist.

With shame I own I've felt thy sway;

When Love's delirium haunts the glowing mind, Repentant, now thy reign is o'er,

Limping Decorum lingers far behind :
No more thy precepts I obey,

Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace,
No more on fancied pinions soar.

Outstript and vanquish'd in the mental chase.
Fond fool! to love a sparkling eye,

The young, the old, have worn the chains of love; And think that eye to truth was dear;

Let those they ne'er confined my lay reprove : To trust a passing wanton's sigh,

Let those whose souls contemn the pleasing power And inelt beneath a wanton's tear!

Their censures on the hapless victim shower.

Oh ! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song,
Romance ! disgusted with deceit,

The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng
Far from thy motley court I fly,

Whose labour'd lines in chilling numbers flow, Where Affectation holds her seat,

To paint a pang the author ne'er can know !
And sickly sensibility ;

The artless Helicon I boast is youth;
Whose silly tears can never flow

My lyre, the heart; iny muse, the simple truth. For any pangs excepting thine;

Far be't from me the virgin's mind' to 'taint:
Who turns aside from real woe,

Seduction's dread is here no slight restraint.
To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine.

The maid whose virgin breast is void of guile, Now join with sable Sympathy,

Whose wishes dimple in a modest sinile,
With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds,

Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton leer, Who heaves with thee her simple sigh,

Firm in her virtue's strength, yet not severeWhose breast for every bosom bleeds;

She whom a conscious grace shall thus refine, And call thy sylvan female choir,

Will ne'er be tainted' by a strain of mine.
To mourn a swain for ever gone,

But for the nymph whose premature desires
Who once could glow with equal fire,

Torment her bosom with unholy fires,
But bends not now before thy throne,

No net to snare her willing heart is spread;

She would have fallen, though she ne'er had read. Ye genial nymphs, whose ready tears

For me, I fain would please the chosen few,
On all occasions swiftly flow;

Whose souls, to feeling and to nature truc,
Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears,

Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy
With fancied flames and frenzy glow;

The light effusions of a heedless boy.
Say, will you inourn my absent name,

I seek not glory from the senseless crowd;
Apostate from your gentle train ?

Of fancied laurels I shall ne'er be proud;
An infant bard at least may claim

Their warmest plaudits I would scarcely prize, From you a sympathetic strain.

Their sneers or censures I alike despise. Adieu, fond race ! a long adieu !

The hour of fate is hovering nigh;
E'en now the gulph appears in view,

Where unlamented you must lie:
Oblivion's blackening lake is seen,

" It is the voice of years that are gone ! they roll before

me with all their deeds."-OSSIAN. Convulsed by gales you cannot weather; Where you, and eke your gentle queen,

NEWSTEAD ! fast-falling, once-resplendent dome!
Alas ! must perish altogether.

Religion's shrine! repentant Henry's pride !*
Of warriors, monks, and dames the cloister'd tomb,

Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide,
ANSWER TO SOME ELEGANT VERSES, Hail to thy pile ! more honour'd in thy fall

Than modern mansions in their pillar'd state ; ING THAT ONE OF HIS DESCRIPTIONS WAS

Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall,

Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate.
“But if any old lady, knight, priest, or physician, No mail-clad serfs,t obedient to their lord,
Should condemn me for printing a second edition;
If good Madame Squintum my work should abuse,

In grim array the crimson cross demand it
May I venture to give her á sinack of my muse !"

Or gay assemble round the festive board

New Bath Guide, Their chief's retainers, an immortal band : CANDOUR compels me, Becher! to coinmend

Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye The verse which blends the censor with the friend.

Retrace their progress through the lapse of time, Your strong yet just reproof extorts applause

Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die,
From me, the heedless and imprudent cause.
For this wild error, which pervades my strain,

A votive pilgrim in Judea's clime.
I sue for pardon-must I sue in vain?
The wise sometimes from Wisdom's ways depart: * Henry II. founded Newstead soon after the
Can youth then hush the dictates of the heart?

murder of Thomas à Becket.

+ This word is used by Walter Scott, in his poem, Precepts of prudence curb, but can't control,

The Wild Huntsman, synonymous with vassal. The fierce emotions of the flowing soul,

The red cross was the badge of the crusaders.

27 But not from thee, dark pile I departs the chief; Not unavenged the raging baron yields ; His feudal realm in other regions lay:

The blood of traitors smears the purple plain; In thee the wounded conscience courts relief, Unconquer'd still, his falchion there he wields, Retiring from the garish blaze of day.

And days of glory yet for him remain.
Yes! in thy gloomy cells and shades profound Still in that hour the warrior wish'd to strew

The monk abjured a world he ne'er could view; Self-gathered laurels on a self-sought grave;
Or blood-stain'd guilt repenting solace found, But Charles' protecting genius hither flew,
Or innocence from stern oppression flew.

The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save, A monarch bade thee from that wild arise,

Trembling, she snatch'd him from the unequal strise, Where Sherwood's outlaws once were wont to In other fields the torrent to repel, prowl;

For nobler combats, here, reserved his life, And Superstition's crimes, of various dyes,

To lead the band where godlike Falkland fell. Sought shelter in the priest's protecting cowl.

From thee, poor pile ! to lawless plunder given, Where now the grass exhales a murky dew,

While dying groans their painful requiem sound, The humid pall of life-extinguish'd clay,

Far different incense now ascends to heaven, In sainted fame the sacred fathers grew,

Such victims wallow on the gory ground. Nor raised their pious voices but to pray.

There many a pale and ruthless robber's corse,
Where now the bats their wavering wings extend, Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod;

Soon as the gloaming* spreads her waning shade, O'er mingling man, and horse commix'd with horse,
The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend. Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod.
Or matin orisons to Mary paid.t

Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o'erspread, Years rolled on years; to ages, ages yield;

Ransack'd, resign perforce their mortal mould; Abbots to abbots, in a line, succeed;

From ruffian fangs escape not e'en the dead, Religion's charter their protecting shield,

Raked from repose in search of buried gold. Till royal sacrilege their dooin decreed.

Hush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre, One holy Henry reard the Gothic walls,

The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death; And bade the pious inmates rest in peace;

No more he strikes the quivering chords with fire, Another Henry the kind gift recalls, f

Or sings the glories of the inartial wreath. And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease.

At length the sated murderers, gorged with prey Vain is each threat or supplicating prayer;

Retire: the clamour of the fight is o'er; He drives them exiles from their blest abode,

Silence again resumes her awful sway, To roam a dreary world in deep despair

And sable Horror guards the massy door. No friend, no home, no refuge but their God.

Here Desolation holds her dreary court : Hark how the hall, resounding to the strain,

What satellites declare her disinal reign! Shakes with the martial music's novel din!

Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen'd birds resort, The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign,

To flit their yigils in the hoary fane. High crested banners wave thy halls within.

Soon a new morn's restoring beams dispel Of changing sentinels the distant hum,

The clouds of anarchy from Britain's skies; The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd arms,

The fierce usurper seeks his native hell, The braying trumpet and the hoarser drum,

And Nature triumphs as the tyrant dies. Unite in concert with increased alarms.

With torms she welcomes his expiring groans; An abbey once, a regal fortress now,

Whirlwinds, responsive, greet his labouring breath; Encircied by insulting rebel powers,

Earth shudders as her caves receive his bones, War's dread machines o'erhang thy threatening brow,

Loathing the offering of so dark a death. I And dart destruction in sulphureous showers.

* Lord Byron and his brother Sir Williain held high Ah! vain defence! the hostile traitor's siege, commands in the royal army. The former was general.

Though oft repulsed, by guile o'ercomes the brave; in-chief in Ireland, lieutenant of the Tower, and His thronging foes oppress the faithful liege,

governor to James Duke of York, afterwards the un

happy James II.; the latter had a principal share in Rebellion's reeking standards o'er him wave.

many actions.

+ Lucius Cary, Lord Viscount Falkland, the most

accomplished man of his age, was killed at the battle As 'gloaming,' the Scottish word for twilight, is of Newbury, charging in the ranks of Lord Byron's far more poetical, and has been recommended by regiment of cavalry, many eminent literary men, particularly by Dr. Moore f This is an historical fact. A violent tempest in his Letters to Burns, I have ventured to use it on occurred immediatly subsequent to the death or inaccount of its harinony.

terment of Cromwell, which occasioned many disputes + The priory was dedicated to the Virgin.

between his partisans and the cavaliers: both inter1 At the dissolution of the monasteries, Henry VIII. preted the circumstance into divine interposition ; but bestowed Newstead Abbey on Sir John Byron. whether as approbation or condemnation, we leave for

When Health, affrighted, spreads her rosy wing,
And flies with every changing gale of spring;
Not to the aching frame alone confined,
Unyielding pangs assail the drooping mind :
What grisly forms, the spectre-train of woc,
Bid shuddering Nature shrink beneath the blow,
With Resignation wage relentless strife,
While Hope retires appall'd, and clings to life!
Yet less the pang when, through the tedious hour,
Remembrance sheds around her genial power,
Calls back the vanish'd days to rapture given,
When love was bliss, and beauty form d our heaven ;
Or, dear to youth, portrays each childish scene,
Those fairy bowers, where all in turn have been.
As when through clouds that pour the suinmer storin
The orb of day unveils his distant forin,
Gilds with faint beams the crystal dews of rain,
And dimly twinkles o'er the watery plain;
Thus, while the future dark and cheerless gleams,
The sun of memory, glowing through my dreams,
Though sunk the radiance of his former blaze,
To scenes far distant points his paler rays;
Still rules my senses with unbounded sway,
The past confounding with the present day.

The legal ruler* now resumes the helin,

He guides through gentle seas the prow of state; Hope cheers, with wonted smiles, the peaceful realm,

And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied hate. The gloomy tenants, Newstead! of thy cells,

Howling, resign their violated nest; Again the master on his tenure dwells,

Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptured zest. Vassals, within thy hospitable pale,

Loadly carousing, bless their lord's return; Culture again adorns the gladdening vale,

And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn, A thousand songs on tuneful echoes foat,

Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees; And hark! the horns proclaim a mellow note,

The hunter's cry hangs lengthening on the breeze. Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake:

What fears, what anxious hopes, attend the chase The lying stag seeks refuge in the lake;

Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race. Ah, happy days I too happy to endure !

Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew : No splendid vices glitter'd to allure ;

Their joys were many, as their cares were few. From these descending, sons to sires succeed;

Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart; Another chief impels the foaming steed,

Another crowd pursue the panting hart. Newstead! what saddening change of scene is thinc !

Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay! The last and youngest of a noble line

Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway. Deserted now, he scans thy grey worn towers;

Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers;

These, these he views, and views them but to weep. Yet are his tears no emblem of regret :

Cherish'd affection only bids them flow. Pride, hope, and love forbid him to forget,

But warm his bosom with impassion'd glow. Yet he prefers thee to the gildei domes

Or gewgaw grottos of the vainly great ; Yet lingers 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs,

Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of fate.
Haply thy sun, emerging, yet may shine,

Thee to irradiate with meridian ray;
Hours splendid as the past may still be thine,

And bless thy future as thy former clay.

Oft does my heart indulge the rising thought, Which still recurs, unlook'd for and unisought; My soul to Fancy's fond suggestion yields, And roams romantic o'er her airy fields. Scenes of my youth, developed, crowd to view, To which I long have bade a last adieu ! Seats of delight, inspiring youthful themes; Friends lost to me for aye, except in dreams; Some who in marble prematurely sleep. Whose forms I now remember but to weep; Some who yet urge the same scholastic course Of early science, future fame the source; Who, still contending in the studious race, In quick rotation till the senior place. These with a thousand visions now unite, To dazzle, though they please, my aching sight. Ida! blest spot, where Science holds her reign, How joyous once I join'd thy youthful train! Bright in idea gleams thy lofty spire, Again I mingle with thy playful quire , Our tricks of mischief, every childish game, Unchanged by time or distance, seems the same; Through winding paths along the glade, I trace The social smile of every welcome face ; My wonted haunts, iny scenes of joy and woe, Each early boyish friend, or youthful foe, Our feuds dissolved, but not my friendship past, I bless the former, and forgive the last. Hours of my youth! wlien, nurtured in my breast, To love a stranger, friendship made me blest, Friexdship, the dear peculiar hond of youth, When every artless bosom throbs with truth; Untaught by worldly wisdom how to feign, And check cach impulse with prudential rein; When all we feel, our honest souls discloseIn love to friends, in open hate to focs; No varnish'd tales the lips of youth repeat, No dear-bought knowledge purchas'd by deceit, Hypocrisy, the gift of lengthen'd years,

CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS. 'I cannot but remember such things were,

And were most dear to me.' WHEN slow Disease, with all her host of pains, Chills the warm tide which flows along the veins ;

the casuists of tha: age to decide. I have made such use of the occurrence as suited the subject of my poem.

# Charles II.

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